


Heartless

by a_bowl_of_peaches



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Death, Lots of Dead Heroes, RGB is messed up over his mistakes, Sad, mentioned gore, pre-The Property of Hate comic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_bowl_of_peaches/pseuds/a_bowl_of_peaches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julienne thinks RGB is heartless. RGB can only wish he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartless

         “How many more will die for your inane quest? How many more will you _murder?_ ” Julienne shrieks, enraged, buffeting the air with her wings. They had lost her in the Market, Hero giggling into her palm like it was a game to hide from the swan-like ballerina. It had been a game to her- he had told her so, warning her with affected sternness that Julienne would eat all her sweets if they were found. But now, she had caught up to them. Well, just him now. RGB’s gaze flicks between the points of her sharp beak and her deadly feet. Julienne looms over Hero, the child’s mangled body ripped apart by seemingly innocent Anxieties all vying for her attention. “You. Are. _Heartless!”_

         Heartless.

         The word has a taste to it, which is peculiar, because he can hardly remember the last time he had a mouth, let alone a tongue to taste with. It’s bitter and salty, with a thickness like foam and a texture like raw meat. It sticks awkwardly where his throat would normally reside and hasn’t for who knows how long. Quizzical, he tips his head, gaze falling to his dead hero, Angeline.

         Angeline is, rather, _was_ nine years old. Shockingly proper, she had insisted on bringing a small backpack of supplies ranging from her favorite teddy to a comb to a packet of macarons her mother had bought her. He could remember how she had first offered him one, innocent and sweet, only to recoil, blushing all the way to her ears when she realized he couldn’t eat it. She had redone her pigtails every morning with careful hands, patting dust from her dress and retying her shoes before turning to him and asking where they were off to next. Her fascination with the Market had led to a musical locket replacing her comb, a colorful feather taking place of her book. She had trotted at her side, pleased with her new treasures, chatting excitedly about how she was going to show all her friends when she got home, even if they didn’t believe she had gone on an adventure with a man with a telly for a head. Now she is dead, skin torn where it stretched too far, bones popped from sockets. Her pigtails have been ripped clean off her scalp, lying scattered by her grossly lengthened fingers.

         Prior to Angeline was Sophie. Sophie was the three-year-old he coaxed from her bed, a tiny thing with bouncy orange curls and freckles. The youngest Hero he had ever taken, she had been forever climbing on him, over his shoulders, across his arms, in his lap to sleep at night. And she never slept unless it was after a story, of which he was thankfully in great supply. She was full of giggles and laughter, not prone to tears, even when she scraped her knees and palms. She only held them up to him with a pouty demand for kisses to the reddened skin. If only kisses had been enough to help her when she dashed herself to pieces on jagged stone, tumbling from a cliff side in an effort to escape a stinging horde of Irritations.

         Benito had come before Sophie, a much older child of ten. He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up and had insisted on bringing his aviator hat and goggles with him into the dreamscape. He had liked orbiting his monster guide in wide circles, arms outstretched. RGB remembers each tear that stung his skin when he died, slowly, consumed by Doubts from the inside out. Such a horrible way to go; he had held the boy through the entire thing, until his body collapsed into a writhing mess of grey and he was forced to flee the dangerous spirals of sharp teeth.

         Seven-year-old Maylin and Chen preceded Benito, the first and only pair of twins he had ever taken into the Property. Maylin had provided an endless stream of questions, from why there was no sun even though day and night existed to why his clothes were so bright. Chen let his twin do most of the talking, content to pick up a souvenir or two as they walked. If only RGB had been paying more attention when he picked up a downy Apathy. Maylin had woken him with her screaming, her twin suffocated, throat lined with clogging fur that grew from his mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. They had only made it a little further before she ran from him, straight into the path of a Grief. He was forced to watch it crush her.

         And then, of course, there were those before Maylin and Chen. Sweet Aisha, who had asked to hold his hand as they walked (cornered by Fears). Exuberant Marco, urging him to move faster so they could see more (snatched by a pack of Ideas). Patient Lara, teaching him how to sign, her small hands flying in place of words (dragged away by starving vines, reaching out to him all the while). Tiny Mina, perched on his shoulders like a baby bird (ripped to pieces by **_s̷̵ơ̛m̴̵̡è̴̵t̢̛̕h̕ín͡g_** after he had fallen into water). Adventurous Freddy, who had earned a particularly fond spot in his heart by making up grand stories while they walked (sucked dry of all his vitality by a vengeful Time).

         Benjamin. Ilya. Valentina. Ebba. Vincent. Akio. Mischa. Banji. Arianna. Lyle. Ismael. Georgie. Tyesha. Graham. Jane. Reagan. Owen. Dimitri. Sylvester. Mason. Charlie. Matthew. Rafael. Julia. Arjun. And hundred other names, never forgotten, spread across his shoulders like chains to drag at his feet.

         _“Well?”_ Julienne belts, dragging him back to the present. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, trickster?” He flicks his antennae, mouth contorting.

         “Oh, if only, Julienne,” he laughs, twirling his cane over his fingers. He dodges her lunge and sidesteps the sweep of her wing _. If only. It would make my life so much easier._ He leaps onto a protruding rock, clasping his hands behind his back. He is still grinning, grinning like he may never stop. “Now, if you excuse me, I have a Hero to find.”


End file.
